The Color of Memory
by keet
Summary: I loved his eyes, and yet they irritated me. Because they made me think of something I didn't remember." A fraccion of Grimmjow struggles to understand her reaction to the espada's eyes, and what they evoke. Oneshot. T for language.


His eyes always irritated me. Not in the way that they enraged me or that I would cringe and look away every time our gazes met. No, it was nothing like that. I loved to look at his eyes, but never in them. When he stopped leering at me, when his attention was diverted to something more entertaining, I would look discretely at them. Rarely could I ever gaze straight at them in fear of triggering his quick temper.

He had such beautiful eyes.

I heard others describe them as terribly cold. But that's not right. His gaze was never cold. They were always filled with such energy, light, and emotion. By the end of our time together, I could deduce his exact feelings by the way he looked at me. Anger. Irritation. Loathing. Annoyance. Those were the most common he showed me. But sometimes, when I was extremely lucky, I could catch a glimpse of something else lurking in his mind. Excitement, thrill, and on the rare, rare occasion, content. It seems strange to have ever thought of him as content, but I was privileged enough to witness it myself. After extremely challenging fights, when he looked down at his dying prey, there was a vicious happiness in his smirk. And after he dealt the final blow, as he watched the life bleeding out of his victim's body, the smirk would falter for just a millisecond into something honest. Something free. Something beautiful.

I loved his eyes, and yet they irritated me.

Because they made me think of something I didn't remember.

It was the color.

His admirers compared them to deep water, rare stones, and foreign skies. But their descriptions never fully captured the shade and spirit of his eyes. The first time I ever tried to describe them, a horribly foreign word filled my mind and throat.

_Glacial. _

And though I could not describe the color, or even say what it was, I knew that it was right. Such hard, abrasive, vivid eyes could only be captured by that one word.

_Glacial._

That word plagued me. Whenever I saw him, it would surface, clawing at my tongue, demanding life. And each time, I had to choke it back. Because I didn't know what it meant. Because I didn't know where it was from. It was foreign. And it scared me. I never spoke it, petrified by what that sound would evoke.

I began to fear that word. I avoided him at all costs in order to keep that word at bay. I never thought of it unless I was near him. When I was forced into his company, I tried to divert my attention away from him. But one look, one glance, one fleeting image of him, and it quickly sprang to life, deafening my mind with its call.

_Glacial._

But what was it? What did it mean? How did I know this word?

Before I had a chance to answer any of those questions, he was wounded. Horribly. I was ordered to look after him, though he never let me. In fear of a reprimanding I helped him from a distance, just little things to make it easier for him. He must have known. He did. But he never showed it. He never made any motions of gratitude or rage, he didn't ignore my presence more than usual. Life went painfully on for us; him with his disgrace, and I with my fixation with that word.

And as the days went by in his company, that word consumed me further. It drowned out all other thoughts. In times of privacy, I would stare at my reflection, daring myself to speak. Say it. Breathe it. Scream it.

Until one day I did.

It was the day he finally recovered. He was so pleased with his returned health. I could tell by that feral gleam in his eyes and the flash of his arrogant smirk. He had power again. I was happy for him.

I suppose he did it to enforce his power over me, though it had never left. All it took was a whisper of his name from my lips, and suddenly there was a wall behind me and a rough hand constricting my throat. He leaned in, sneering something I didn't hear. I was too focused on his eyes. Mere inches from my own. So horribly captivating. My blood pounding in my ears, that word beating in time made me want to scream, to retch, to die. With the last remnants or air in my lungs, I finally let that word free.

"Glacial."

There was silence. Finally silence in my mind.

His eyes widened slightly. I wondered if he knew what it meant. I wanted to ask him what it meant. The moment of pause ended, and he threw me to floor, spitting some insulting words as he turned and walked away. But I didn't hear him. Because I finally understood why I didn't want to say that word.

Because I remembered.

I remembered life.

It was cold, but I was warm. Grey water and grey stones and grey skies. The smell of decaying leaves, the first frost, and loamy earth. Someone laughing warmly behind me. Misting rain on my exposed face. And looming through the clouds, a massive wall of ice. White, and black, and grey, and blue. Jagged, smooth, fissured faces spilling from the clouded valley. The feeling of complete awe and understanding.

When I returned to my senses, I was crying silently.

I remembered. And it hurt.

I once asked another if they remembered their life before. They scoffed and said they didn't want to. That it was because of _life_ that we were here.

I don't know of anyone here that remembers. Maybe only I remember. I treasured those fleeting images. _Memories_ I once heard someone call them. Memories. I had _memories_ from my life before.

Whenever I saw the white of our land, heard the cold laughter of others, or looked at his eyes, I remembered it all again. And as would pull myself from those memories, I would gag at the bland, sterile, monochrome, _lifeless_ world we now lived in.

So I secluded myself away, hoping to forget the memories, but wanting to live in them. I tried to ignore the silent world around me. I wanted to remember more. I wanted more _memories._ But I didn't want the pain of returning to my barren reality. I hated it. I hated that I couldn't remember more, that I was stuck with that one horribly, wonderfully, vivid _memory_. I tried to imagine myself in that _memory_, but it never seemed right. I didn't belong there anymore. But I wanted to. I _needed_ to. I had to. There had to be a better life than this.

Days of silent reclusion passed. I didn't eat, I didn't sleep. I willed myself to stay in a hazy state between my _memory_ and the solid world around me. There was nothing for me here, and there was no hope of returning to the past.

I was lost.

I hated it.

Finally, he found me. He walked to my curled up body, and kicked me roughly in the stomach, telling me to get up and do my job. I groaned slightly, but refused to move. If I moved, I'd abandon my precious _memory_ and accept this damned life. I heard him curse, and fabric shifting. There were hands on my collar, pulling me up to his face. I ignored him. I didn't want to look at him. I didn't want more _memories_ taunting me. He insulted me. He called me weak, pathetic. I heard him, but didn't listen. He hit me across the face. There was pain, but that _memory_ was worse. He told me to look at him. He ordered me to look at him. He threatened me, hit me again, and grabbed my face, trying to get me to look at him.

"I can't," I finally whispered. I didn't recognize my voice.

He shook me, and asked me 'why the fuck not?'

I closed my eyes, "Because you make me remember."

He dropped me as if I had scalded him.

He kicked me again, screaming an explanation why I didn't want to remember. Wasn't this place shit? He told me that we came from someplace worse than this, that _life_ was worse than this. We had no power before, but now we could destroy _life_. He told me he knew this because he _remembers_.

I finally looked up at him.

He remembers. He _remembers._ He has _memories_. Like me.

He told me to stop hiding and cowering away like a pathetic animal. He threatened to kill me. He always threatens to kill me. He told me he would show me how weak and useless _life _is. He would show me how strong we were.

I wanted to ask him what he remembers. Were his _memories_ as brilliant as mine? Did he feel warm in his? But I looked up at him before me, and saw the sheer energy in his eyes as he spoke of feeble _life_, and I knew that he and I were different.

I wanted to _live_, and he wanted to destroy it. He was my enemy. He was my savior. He was my damnation.

I told him that nothing could be worse than this. I screamed that he was wrong. That life was incredible. That I wanted to live.

I didn't fight back. I let him beat me. He yelled while he kicked and threw me into walls. I wanted to live? I had to die to live again. Did I want to die? Did I want to become _weak_, and _feeble_, and _pathetic_? Did I want to become like _him_? Stupid, naïve, and full of self righteousness? I heard something finally crack and splinter. I thought it was the wall.

It was my mask.

As blood began to pool around my dying body, he gazed down at me with cold eyes for the first time. With a last insult, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and sauntered off. There was no content in his eyes as I died. The bitterness of his gaze scoured my soul.

I loved his beautiful, glacial eyes. And I hated them because there were no glaciers anymore.


End file.
